


versions of us; ours to keep

by dapperyklutz



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Crack Treated Seriously, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier loves to show off his witcher boyfriend in the best of ways, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tender Sex, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Very Little Plot But There's Smut, that should be an official tag, they're so in love and it's so gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24703696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperyklutz/pseuds/dapperyklutz
Summary: “So the story is this,” Jaskier slurs, wildly gesticulating in his seat beside Geralt as he starts to recount the story to Eskel and Lambert on how they got together. “You see, my dear witchers, it all started when we were staying at a lovely little village in Cidaris and Geralt had left for a contract…”Geralt’s brow furrows. That isfarfrom what actually happened, if he has any say in it.Which he doesn’t. But it’s not like he’s complaining.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 36
Kudos: 376





	versions of us; ours to keep

**Author's Note:**

> I'm supposed to be editing/writing my WIP Modern Geraskier!AU fic, which I've been working on for the past few months, but then this happened. The idea came to me a few days after I published my other Geraskier fic, and here we are.
> 
> This is my first time writing in Geralt's POV and it's a lot more challenging than I thought. It's a mix of game + show Geralt because the show version makes my heart ache. All information is taken from Witcher Wiki and from watching the show. Also, this is my second attempt at writing smut, so please be kind. 🥺
> 
> Self-beta'd. Enjoy!

“So the story is this,” Jaskier slurs, wildly gesticulating in his seat beside Geralt as he starts to recount the story to Eskel and Lambert on how they got together.

Geralt rolls his eyes with a huff, a smile forming on his face despite himself as affection blooms in his chest at the avid way Jaskier tells their story. They’ve been in Kaer Morhen for only two days but his bard is getting along perfectly well with his brothers.

Too well, in fact.

“You see, my dear witchers, it all started when we were staying at a lovely little village in Cidaris and Geralt had left for a contract…”

Geralt’s brow furrows. That is _far_ from what actually happened, if he has any say in it.

Which he doesn’t. But it’s not like he’s complaining.

Geralt just grunts and lets Jaskier carry on with his prattling. He wraps an arm around the bard’s waist and nuzzles his nose against Jaskier’s temple, who — as a professional entertainer and natural storyteller — doesn’t stutter or stumble over this words while describing the nasty fight with a wyvern. Instead, Jaskier leans on Geralt’s side, cornflower blue eyes twinkling a little brighter and his smile a little wider.

Geralt is enamoured by him and he gladly allows his bard to continue spinning a tale that did not even take place.

~

“… and after the White Wolf took down the kikimora, thus saving me from a perilous death, he came to me and grasped my face between his hands. Then he said, ‘You’re an idiot and I almost lost you’ — which, by the way, would have offended me so. But before I could tell him that I did what I did to _save_ him, I said, ‘Well, all’s fair in love and monster guts, dear Witcher’.”

“And?” one of the women surrounding Jaskier in the tavern implores, her eyes wide in rapt attention.

Jaskier sighs dramatically, and Geralt, who’s seated in his usual corner, can’t help but snort at the theatricality of it all.

It’s late in the evening and the tavern is only half-full of patrons. Geralt had returned an hour ago after dispatching a nest of drowners that’s been bothering the small town for months now. The townsfolk are, surprisingly, friendly and unbiased. Which is probably thanks to his bard’s music, and Geralt is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth for a rare display of tolerance to people of Geralt’s kind.

So perhaps that is why he has also tolerated Jaskier’s weird little game of _How I Met My Witcher_. Geralt can’t pinpoint the exact period Jaskier started sharing anecdotes about his — their — love life. It’s not like these people give a damn about them.

And yet.

“My dear Witcher grunted and then kissed me,” Jaskier concludes solemnly, and his audience lets out a collective _dreamy_ sigh. “And we have been together ever since.”

“Oh, it’s so romantic,” says the same auburn-haired lady.

“And so brave!” exclaims another.

Jaskier meets Geralt’s heated gaze across the room. Cornflower blue glinting against the warm, orange light of the tavern, the bard had the audacity to wink coquettishly at Geralt, not bothering to be discreet about it. Geralt rolls his eyes at him, ignoring the giggling women as he drains his tankard. What this town made up for in the kindness they extended towards Geralt — free food and a room at the inn, how about that? — it lacked for in the quality of the ale. But that’s alright. It’s not the ale Geralt gives a shit about.

He gets up from his spot and arches a brow at Jaskier, his gaze deliberately going from heated to suggestive. If there’s one thing that would make this evening perfect, it would be to take his bard up to their room and give him a thorough fucking.

Geralt has to hide his snort of laughter behind a cough when he sees Jaskier scramble for his lute, offering a quick but lame excuse to the group of women tittering before following Geralt up the stairs.

That night was the most athletic sex they ever had.

~

“How did you manage to tame that witcher of yours, bard?”

Geralt is sequestered in a corner of the banquet hall, a mug of ale in his hand as he surveys his surroundings with cautious eyes. He’s in the opposite side of the room when his enhanced hearing picks up the grating voice of one of the nobles present chatting up to Jaskier near the drinks table.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That witcher of yours is tame, a far cry from the description of the _Butcher of Blaviken_ we heard back then. What did you do, bard? Fucked him into submission?” The noble chortles then at his shitty joke.

Geralt rolls his eyes and takes another long sip of his drink. He sees Jaskier, who is on his short break after entertaining the guests for nearly an hour of non-stopping playing and singing, look up from picking a few grapes to smile sharply at the foolish noble.

It’s only thanks to his enhanced senses that Geralt sees it. And when he does, he snorts inelegantly and hides a wolfish grin behind his drink.

“Kind sir, you do not _tame_ a witcher,” Geralt hears Jaskier reply in that tone of voice that is a mix between sardonic and barely tolerant, which really translates poorly to the person the bard is talking to. “It’s like suggesting you can domesticate a wyvern. A mere humble bard like me has no chance of taming a monster hunter, let alone the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen. In fact, you’ll find that it’s quite the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

Geralt can discern the dangerous glint in Jaskier’s eyes, his lips stretched into a broad smile and showing his pearly white teeth.

“I’ve been following my dear Geralt for close to twenty years, kind sir. I’ve seen him maim and defeat creatures your feeble imagination can’t fathom, and he’s saved my life more than I can count. Actually, that’s how we got together.” Jaskier’s tone shifts, sounding almost thoughtful. His mouth curves into a smirk as cornflower blue eyes quickly glance at Geralt. There’s a playful glint there that Geralt doesn’t miss. “We were bested by a succubus, see, and we had no choice but to fuck each other or else we die. Geralt had more control, obviously, while I lay in the grass writhing in pain and begging him to fill me up with his cock and cum. So really,” Jaskier lets out a sigh and drains his mug, ignoring the pale noble who looks like he’s about to hurl his dinner. Bar his performance, this is the most entertainment Geralt’s had all night. “You’ve got it all wrong. How do you think I’m still alive all these years if it was _I_ who tamed him? Hm?”

Jaskier leaves the noble’s side without saying goodbye, a spring in his step as he quickly shoots a saucy wink at Geralt, who follows his bard’s lithe movements with hungry, heated eyes.

~

Several weeks later, Geralt finally gives in to his curiosity.

“Why do you do it?” he asks.

“Do what?” Jaskier answers, not halting in his playing but his attention is now split between Geralt and his music.

Geralt huffs out a breath.

They’re camped in the middle of the woods, two days away from the next village. Geralt caught a few hares and roasted them in the fire Jaskier made while he went hunting for their dinner. Now, after brushing down Roach and feeding her a few apples and grains, they’re both doing their respective tasks.

Geralt is reclined against a fallen log, sharpening his swords with the whetstone, while Jaskier is strumming his lute on the opposite side of the fire. He hums a few words under his breath before he writes down the lyrics on the notebook next to him.

“Spread these tales about us to those strangers,” he replies after a moment. He inspects the blade of his silver sword and then hums. It needs a bit more sharpening. “Stories that aren’t even true.”

When he hears no reply, Geralt looks up to see Jaskier already looking at him. The warm glow of the fire makes the bard’s features soften, chestnut hair a bit rumpled following the impromptu make-out session that occurred fifteen minutes earlier. Blue eyes Geralt has fallen for a long time ago twinkle like sapphires as those lips he’s kissed and nibbled on countless times before and can never get enough of stretch into a lopsided smile.

Geralt’s heart stutters in his chest and he finds himself falling a little more in love with Jaskier. No amount of training and discipline and _decades_ on The Path prepared Geralt for this loud, bright, and infuriating man.

And he won’t have it any other way.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier says, and he’s looking so fondly at him, soft smile and even softer eyes, that Geralt can’t help but abandon his task for the moment. “My dear, darling witcher. Of course they’re true.”

Well, he certainly wasn’t expecting that answer.

Geralt gives him a dubious look. Jaskier sighs and rolls his eyes.

“I may be old but my memory is still sharp, bard,” Geralt answers with a small smirk. “I’m pretty certain that you and I didn’t ‘fall into bed’ after I survived a fatal wound from a fight with a barghest and you ‘stitched me back together’. I would know.” There’s a full smirk on his face now. Geralt chuckles when Jaskier huffs out a breath and juts his chin.

“You _did_ survive a fatal wound from a barghest,” Jaskier says, sounding affronted. “And I _did_ stitch you back after.”

“Not what I asked.”

“ _Really_ , Geralt. The devil’s in the details, as they say! Well, I don’t know who’s ‘they’, but… no matter. The fact remains that people love hearing stories. Even better, people love hearing _love_ stories. I am, after all, a hopeless romantic. And not only am I a talented musician, I am also a connoisseur in the art of storytelling. It just so happened that ours is the most captivating one I’ve told thus far. Who am I to deny my audience, Geralt? It would be a _travesty_ , a _mockery_ , and a negligence of my talents if I do not use them to my, _our_ , advantage.”

After all that impassioned speech, Geralt doesn’t bother to point out that Jaskier still hadn’t answered his question. He knows when to choose his battles, and Geralt is of the belief that he won’t get the truth tonight.

Instead, he grunts and goes back to sharpening his sword. After several moments, Jaskier picks up his playing like he didn’t stop, and Geralt easily welcomes the familiar peace that befalls them. It’s similar to being wrapped in the thickest fur he has in his room in Kaer Morhen.

~

For some reason Geralt doesn’t want to begin contemplating or acknowledge just yet, he finds himself paying closer attention to Jaskier whenever he gets in his “storytelling mood”.

Which, fortunately, doesn’t happen as often.

But it _does_ continue to beg the question: what is his bard up to?

~

They’re restocking their supplies in Gors Velen when Geralt distantly makes out Jaskier’s voice amongst the cacophony of voices in the market. It takes less than a minute to find his bard chatting with a merchant who’s selling scented soap and bath oils.

“A gift for the missus, sir?” the middle-aged merchant asks.

Geralt sees Jaskier smell a bar of soap. His nose wrinkles in distaste before he picks up another one as he cheerily replies, “Not the missus, kind sir. It’s for my darling Geralt. He doesn’t say it — and he doesn’t need to, I’ve been traveling with him for nearly twenty years now, and I know him better than I know myself sometimes — but my dear Witcher loves the chamomile and lavender bath oils. As for soap, he prefers the honey and oat one, which is a shame that you don’t have it on stock. I suppose the best alternative is the honey and almond, which smells quite nice.”

Geralt sees Jaskier pick up two bars of those and hands it to the merchant. His blue eyes seem to wander down the street for a moment before he continues to talk the merchant’s ear off.

“Perhaps another bottle of the chamomile oil, kind sir? Ah, perfect, thank you. There’s a funny story behind that, actually. My darling Geralt really loves those, and it was the aftermath of a fight with some alghouls — nasty creatures, mind you — and I was rubbing his shoulders…”

~

In a village near Rinde, Geralt is in a corner at the tavern, nursing his fourth tankard of ale while he watches Jaskier in his element. He’s singing and prancing around the room filled with drunk patrons, their spirits lifted up after Geralt killed the bruxa that has been haunting them for months.

By the time Jaskier finishes his set, to raucous applause following another round of _Toss A Coin_ , it’s almost midnight. The tavern is only half full by then. Geralt watches on in amusement as his bard profusely thanks his audience — or what’s left of it, the witcher thinks with a snort — while he shoves the coins he earned that night into the pouch attached to his belt.

Geralt tilts his head when Jaskier approaches his table in the corner. He carefully sets aside his lute on an empty seat before Geralt feels calloused palms cup his jaw and Jaskier’s sweaty, musky scent is all he can smell and taste as those perfect lips press against his. Geralt playfully bites Jaskier’s lower lip, one hand lifting to squeeze the bard’s hip, and he hears Jaskier whimper against his mouth. Their tongues tangle for a second before Jaskier pulls off with a breathy gasp.

“I’ll take _that_ as your review for my performance tonight, darling,” Jaskier rasps out. Geralt delights at the wrecked expression on his bard’s face, his pupils blown wide with arousal.

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, sounding both pleased and smug.

Jaskier pouts at him. Then he pulls away, only to say, “Let me buy us some drinks first. Then we can go up to our room and… celebrate.”

Geralt has been half-hard the whole night, and at Jaskier’s suggestive tone, it causes his cock to twitch and harden further.

“Better hurry up then,” Geralt says with a smirk. He hears Jaskier’s heartbeat pick up as the bard scrambles towards the bar to order their drinks.

Not wanting to stay another moment longer, Geralt gets up and carefully picks up Jaskier’s lute. He’s at the foot of the stairs when he realises Jaskier is _chatting_ with the barkeep.

“A bottle of rosé, if you have it. My beloved and I are off to celebrate.” The barkeep grunts, but Jaskier pays no mind as he continues on, much to Geralt’s exasperation. “It’s our anniversary tonight, see. And what a wonderful way to celebrate our union at such a lovely, affable town! Why— this is the same bottle of wine we had that night! Perhaps I can get this for a lower price…”

Geralt snorts and shakes his head before he continues going up the stairs, looking forward to fucking his _beloved_ until the wee hours of the morning.

~

They’re in a village near Ban Gleán when Geralt sees Jaskier surrounded by children no older than ten, seated comfortably in a patch of grass at the edge of the market, arms waving in wide motions as he narrates to them:

“… and I found my dear Witcher near the edge of the cliff, unmoving after having successfully defeated a pack of wolves. And let me tell you, my darlings, he was _not_ light at all!” The children laugh as they continue to listen to Jaskier, completely engrossed in the tale. “It took us a horribly long time to make it out of the forest. The trees whispered to themselves, insects chirping and buzzing while the wilder beasts steered clear of us. The wind was cool against my sweaty form, and the entire journey the witcher lay unconscious. When we reached the inn, I was exhausted to the bone and it took two bulk men to help Geralt’s — that’s my witcher’s name, by the way — massive build up to our room.”

“Did he survive?” a blonde little girl gasps, eyes wide in fear and wonder.

Jaskier nods his head. Geralt, who’s leaning against the wall of the apothecary and listening to another tale his bard has concocted, huffs out a breath of amusement at Jaskier’s solemn look.

“He did, little one. Patching up the injuries he sustained during the fight was tiring, but patched him up I did. He was asleep for days. Even a witcher as strong and brave as my Geralt had to get all the rest he needed in order to recover, but I admit I was starting to worry. I didn’t want to lose him — not my best friend, the most important person in my life.” A melancholic look passed over Jaskier’s face, and even Geralt can’t tell if he was acting or not. It was very convincing. Then the sadness melts away to be replaced with a look like he’s about to reveal a secret. “But on the third day, I had done my waiting and decided to take matters into my own hands, Destiny be damned. I had to wake him up.”

The children gasped, as if on cue.

“How did you wake him up, Master Bard?” a mousy-haired boy asks, lower lip quivering in excitement.

Geralt silently observes as Jaskier deliberately pauses, at least until all the children are waiting with bated breath, to finally say, “I took Geralt’s face in my hands and bestowed a kiss on his pale lips. A tear fell from my cheek to land on his eye, and between one breath and the next, my witcher’s eyes finally opened.”

The children cheered and clapped. Even some of the adults, who couldn’t help but stop and listen to Jaskier tell a made-up fairytale story involving him and a monster hunter, ended up applauding the bard, amusement dancing in their eyes.

“True love’s kiss!”

“It’s real!”

“Did you and the Master Witcher live happily ever after?” Geralt hears the same mousy-haired boy, who couldn’t be older than eight, ask Jaskier.

In that moment, cornflower blue eyes immediately meets Geralt’s steady gaze. There’s something soft and warm in his expression that Geralt can’t make out, but nonetheless it sends an equally warm and comforting feeling in his chest. It’s familiar and welcome, and Geralt is unable to hide the fond smile that forms on his face.

Jaskier returns it, beaming and bright as the sun.

“Yes,” he replies to the boy, though his eyes are still trained on Geralt’s. “Yes, we did.”

And Geralt finally starts to understand.

~

When it comes to sex, Geralt is a very considerate lover. Sure, he loves it hard and fast. On occasion, and especially after a fight when his adrenaline’s spiked up with the potions, he prefers it rough and wild, and _athletic_.

But there are times when Geralt would favour something less frenzied.

Softer. More drawn out.

Passionate, but not harsh.

Like tonight.

They’re in Ard Carraigh, and it’s their last night at the inn before Geralt and Jaskier begin to trek up the mountains to Kaer Morhen for the winter. It’s been a long year on The Path, and Geralt is more than ready to spend the next couple of months back home. With Vesemir and his brothers. With Jaskier.

And it’s the image of his bard, naked and sweaty and laid out on the bed with his legs spread obscenely wide between Geralt’s massive form, that makes the silver-haired witcher smile a tad wider.

He’s three fingers deep in Jaskier, the tips of his fingers massaging that spot which never fails to make his bard moan and cry out for _more, more, please more_. They’ve been at it for hours now, Jaskier having come twice already — once in Geralt’s mouth, and the second with his fingers buried in Jaskier’s tight hole.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whines, hands fisted in the sheets. He rolls his hips, precome leaking over the slit of his stiff cock. There’s already a small puddle on his belly. Jaskier cries out when Geralt inserts a fourth finger. He’s stretched so wide by now, and Geralt knows he’s more than prepared, but he waits. “Geralt, _please_ , I—I’m ready.”

“Shh, I know,” Geralt says in a low voice. He trails the fingers of his other hand up Jaskier’s soft belly, then up towards his hairy chest. He pinches and rolls one nipple, and a shiver of satisfaction travels down Geralt’s spine when Jaskier lets out a sob of pleasure. “I know, but just a little more. Can you do that for me, Julek?”

The nickname falls effortlessly from Geralt’s lips. He only ever calls Jaskier that during moments when Geralt is at his most vulnerable, and most of the time that’s only when they’re making love. And Geralt knows that Jaskier _loves_ it.

Jaskier lets out a whimper, but he nods his head. Cornflower blue hazy with lust and love meets Geralt’s golden eyes. The trust he sees there nearly makes him choke with emotion, the well-known warmth building in his chest until Geralt feels he’s going to suffocate in it.

_“Fuck.”_

With a growl, Geralt removes his fingers, ignoring Jaskier’s cry as he upends the bottle of oil on his cock. He tosses the half-empty bottle aside before spreading Jaskier’s legs further and lifting them up by the back of his thighs. He bends him in half until Jaskier’s knees are almost underneath his armpits.

In one swift motion, Geralt enters Jaskier’s fluttering hole. No matter how many times they do this, no matter how many times Geralt fills him up and comes in his bard, it always feels like the first time. Geralt groans when he bottoms out, Jaskier letting out a guttural moan at the intrusion as blunt nails latch on to Geralt’s hips.

“Oh, _finally. Fuck_. You feel so fucking good,” Jaskier sobs, eyes squeezed shut momentarily before they open. He lifts his head and the look he gives Geralt is almost reverent. Until he smirks. “Welcome home, darling.”

Geralt snorts in laughter. The absolute _bastard_.

He starts slow, hips moving languidly as Geralt continues to hit that spot with acute precision. Jaskier’s whimpers turn into moans as he begs for Geralt to fuck him hard and rough, to mark him up and make him his own. But Geralt ignores him and carries on with the measured pace he has set. Droplets of sweat trail from Geralt’s face and land on Jaskier’s equally sweaty form, their breaths intermingling from how close their faces have become.

“Hello,” Jaskier says with a blissful smile.

Geralt smiles back. “Hello.”

After several minutes, he decides to change their position.

He loosens his tight grip on the back of Jaskier’s thighs, only to guide those sturdy legs to wrap around Geralt’s hips. Jaskier moves his arms as the new position allows Geralt to rest his elbows on either side of Jaskier’s face. His chestnut locks are disheveled, clumps of hair matted to his sweaty forehead. Geralt continues to move his hips in that slow, unhurried pace, golden eyes wandering on Jaskier’s face. From the faint wrinkles on the corners of his eyes to the light smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Geralt hums and then leans down to kiss those long lashes, his smile widening a fraction when he hears Jaskier giggle as he proceeds to pepper kisses across the bard’s face.

A face which Geralt knows as well as he knows the origins of all his scars. A face which has displayed hundreds of emotions, may it be good or bad. It’s the face of the person who has remained steadfast by Geralt’s side through all the shit that Destiny has thrown his way.

His fearless, beloved bard.

“I love you,” Geralt whispers in the space that’s left between them.

Jaskier’s eyes sparkle in the otherwise dimly lit room. Geralt never wants to look away.

“I love you too,” Jaskier says it back, and then he cries out when Geralt’s next thrust hits his prostate. “I love you so much, you have no idea.”

And that’s the thing. Geralt thinks he might.

“All those stories you tell them,” he begins with a grunt. “About us.”

Jaskier gasps, his hips rolling as he meets Geralt’s thrusts.

“Y-you wanna talk about — oh, _fuck_ , right there! — about t-that _now_?”

“I think I know why you do,” Geralt says instead. He lifts one arm to trail down Jaskier’s side, fingers tweaking a nipple before he takes the bard’s hip in a bruising grip.

“Then w-what is it?” Jaskier asks, curious despite himself. Geralt purrs in delight when Jaskier’s eyes roll to the back of his head as Geralt starts to deepen his thrusts. “ _Oh_ , oh fuck. Ah _ah_ , Geralt. _Shit_ , you fuck me so well, darling.”

“You take me so well, Julek. The best hole I ever had.”

Geralt smirks at Jaskier’s wanton moan, and he tightly holds on to Jaskier’s other hip. He’ll be leaving bruises there for sure. Geralt then braces his knees and feet on the bed before he starts to pick up the pace, cock driving relentlessly into his lover.

“You like it,” Geralt states next. He leans forward to lick a stripe up Jaskier’s throat, teeth lightly grazing the curve of his jaw before he gives in to the urge to leave a mark on his bard. He sucks a dark bruise on Jaskier’s pulse point, the latter crying out in surprise before he lets out another loud moan. Once he’s satisfied at the second bruise he leaves on the other side of Jaskier’s neck, Geralt continues. “You like it when I look at you when you tell those strangers about us. Doesn’t matter that they’re not true, that none of those events ever happened, but that’s only for us to know. In fact, you _love_ how hard I get when I see you giving me those sultry looks. Don’t think I didn’t notice them, Julek.”

Jaskier cries, face slack in rapture as Geralt keeps thrusting in and out of him.

“G-Geralt, _nngh_ —”

“Admit it,” Geralt growls.

It takes his bard a moment longer to respond.

“Y-yes! Yes, Geralt, yes,” Jaskier wails, and the hands gripping Geralt’s shoulders disappear, only for those blunt nails to scratch down his back. Geralt hisses at the burn it leaves on its wake. Beneath him, Jaskier prattles on. “ _Fuck_ , you— uh. You make it so easy, d-darling — _ah_ , right there! — the way you look at me. Like you can’t wait ‘till we’re alone to r-ravish me.”

Geralt leans forward to bite and suck bruises along Jaskier’s collarbones.

“Hmm. But why? Why do that?”

When he glances up, Geralt sees Jaskier already looking at him, eyes shining as he wet his lips. The look Jaskier is giving him in that moment is an expression Geralt is intimately familiar with. It’s a cross between fondness, adoration, exasperation, and lust. But there’s something heavy, significant, in Jaskier’s eyes that Geralt is unable to grasp at this moment.

“Because,” Jaskier breathes out, and Geralt slows his pace a bit. Jaskier wraps one hand around the back of Geralt’s neck and he blinks hard before he looks deep into Geralt’s eyes. “Melitele’s tits, you had to choose _now_ to ask for answers. But you, _ah_ , you should see yourself when you’re listening to me tell our story. You look so _happy_ , and I love it when you’re happy, Geralt— _fuck_ , uh. If I had to come up with a _million_ made-up stories about us, just to see t-that look on your face, then I will.”

 _“Julek.”_ Geralt grits his teeth when he feels that telltale tingle down his spine. He’s close, so close.

“And I also like to think— _shit_ ,” Jaskier gasps out when Geralt’s hips start to stutter. “I like to think those versions of us get to have what we have. Oh _fuck, right there, Geralt, don’t stop!_ ” Jaskier yells that last bit, and Geralt’s chest rumbles at the pleasure he’s giving him.

“What do they get?” Geralt asks, his voice low and guttural. “What is it we have that they don’t, Julek?”

Jaskier emits a high-pitched whine, and it takes him longer to form a coherent response. Geralt can now see his bard’s frustration at bringing up this topic during sex.

“A happy ending.”

And then Jaskier comes with a shout, long white stripes painting his belly and chest, going as far as hitting the underside of his chin. Geralt feels Jaskier clench, and it takes three more thrusts before he also topples over the edge, filling Jaskier’s overstimulated hole with his come.

Several minutes later, Geralt has wiped them both clean of their spend and they each drink a glass of water. Not long after, Jaskier snuggles closer to him, heads sharing the same pillow and faces a few inches away. Their feet tangle together as Jaskier traces Geralt’s face with calloused fingers. Geralt has one arm draped over Jaskier’s tender hip, fingers lightly caressing the knobs of his bard’s spine.

“Happy ending, hm?” Geralt says then, a lazy smirk on his face.

Jaskier snorts before he playfully boops Geralt’s nose. “Yeah, a happy ending.” Then he sighs dramatically. “Ah, well. It was fun while it lasted.”

Geralt hums.

“S’fine. I like it,” he mumbles.

He barely catches Jaskier blink owlishly at him.

“You mean, you don’t mind?” Jaskier implores with an arched brow.

“No,” Geralt utters, and he’s surprised that he means it. To the marrow of his bones. “It makes you happy. ‘Sides, you’re a good storyteller. Even if half the shit you say about us isn’t true and has never happened.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh, but there’s a fond smile on his face as he meets Geralt’s drowsy gaze. “That’s the point of storytelling, darling. Doesn’t matter that it’s made up, so long as it entertains. Truly, my audience laps it up so beautifully. And oh, the tales I can spin about different versions of us, Geralt! Can you picture it? By the time I’m old and grey, no one in the Continent will know which story is the _real_ version!”

Geralt chuckles under his breath, and he pulls the bard to him until their chests are pressed close. He kisses the smile on Jaskier’s face, feels his lips do the same, and for several moments they lay in bed together and trade sweet, chaste kisses.

“That’s because the real story lies between us,” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s lips.

“Exactly,” Jaskier agrees. Then he adds, a hint of possessiveness in his tone, “And that version is only for ours to keep.”

Geralt smiles against his mouth, whispers, “I like that,” and it’s the last coherent thing said that night as they fall on to each other once more.

~

The story is this:

They’re in Oxenfurt during the summer solstice, and Geralt had accompanied Jaskier there since the bard wanted to attend a music festival. The people were loud, the music louder, and the air in the city was warm and humid. Geralt should’ve hated it. He abhors crowded places because it overwhelms his enhanced senses. Honestly, the combined stench of hundreds of unwashed bodies and the animals, plus the fucking _noise_ is enough to drive a witcher of Geralt’s calibre insane.

But for some unfathomable reason, that week they were in the city, Geralt found that he could tolerate it.

Maybe it’s because the last contract he took before they arrived in Oxenfurt, Geralt was paid double the amount promised to him. Maybe it’s because Geralt was able to have his armor repaired for less the price he normally pays. Or perhaps it could be that Geralt saw firsthand Jaskier tear Valdo Marx a new one, and seeing his best friend be absolutely _feral_ to his long-time nemesis made something hot and possessive curl in his gut.

Either way, Geralt had a surprisingly enjoyable time in Oxenfurt. And it only got better on their last night there.

He and Jaskier are inside the room they’ve rented for the week. Jaskier is shuffling around the considerable space of their room — packing up their clothes and polishing his lute and arranging Geralt’s armor — while Geralt is soaking in the hot tub after a long night playing bodyguard for the bard. It wasn’t so bad, but Geralt is a solitary man and he knows when to appreciate blessed silence.

As routine goes, after Jaskier has packed up their belongings, he sits on the stool behind Geralt and gets to work. Usually, the bard washes his hair first, but since Geralt hasn’t taken up a contract all week Jaskier leaves it for now. And usually, after finishing with his hair, Jaskier starts to rub Geralt’s shoulders with the chamomile oil, relieving the tension in those firm muscles.

That’s what usually happens. But it’s not the case that night.

With his eyes closed, Geralt hears Jaskier rummage through his pack for the bottle of chamomile oil. He hears the bard walk across the room until he’s behind Geralt. He hears Jaskier pull the stool closer, and the familiar rustle of his clothes as the bard moves to sit.

Only to hear the sound of wood breaking and Jaskier yelping in surprise. It’s followed by the loud thud of a body landing on the ground, and then Jaskier swearing and groaning in pain. Before Geralt knows it he’s halfway out of the tub when he sees Jaskier sprawled on his arse, bits of wood of the broken stool scattered around him.

The slackened expression on Jaskier’s face, eyes wide in shock and displeasure, makes something uncoil in Geralt because he _laughs_.

Geralt laughs and laughs, a low rumbling that starts from his chest until his shoulders are shaking and his face is stretched from how wide he’s smiling.

“Well, ha-fucking-ha,” he hears Jaskier grumble. Through tears of mirth Geralt watches in amusement as the bard slowly gets on his knees, one hand rubbing his sore bum. “Go on, laugh it up. Glad to know I get to make the White Wolf laugh due to unintended slapstick comedy.”

“Are you hurt?” Geralt manages to ask between bouts of laughter.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, although there’s a small, embarrassed smile on his face. “Just my pride.”

It all happens so suddenly, Geralt can’t even pinpoint the exact moment things shifted between them.

One moment he’s leaning over the tub and laughing at Jaskier’s unfortunate mishap. And the next Geralt has Jaskier’s face cradled between his hands as he leans down to kiss those lips fixed into a pout.

Then Jaskier kisses him back, body stiff in surprise for a fraction of a second before he melts in Geralt’s sturdy arms. There’s a loud moan, and neither can tell who makes that sound. All Geralt can think of in that moment, with his dripping chest pressed close to Jaskier’s clothed form and thus drenching the bard’s favourite doublet, is that they should’ve been doing this a long time ago.

Years from now, Geralt will hear Jaskier say something along the lines of _"the best love stories have the most mundane beginnings.”_

Which contradicts the innumerable tales his bard has spun and told around the Continent, as well as the nature of the life Geralt leads on The Path, with Jaskier as his steadfast companion. There’s nothing mundane about that.

But that’s okay.

After all, the real version of the story is only for theirs to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title of this fic was "Happy Endings", haha.
> 
> Toss a comment or kudo to your writer, oh reader a-plenty! Thank you!
> 
> I'm [jaskierstark](https://jaskierstark.tumblr.com) on Tumblr if you wanna say hi.


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